To whom it may concern

The lake was mirror-calm when Marshall arrived at the Baitshop, flat and still and reflecting the merciless blue of a vast, hungry sky. So when he pushed through the Old West-style saloon doors that separated dining experience from chum bucket, he was startled to find the whole room bathed in the soft shushing noise of waves breaking on gravel.

Janet came over, already tugging pulling off the heavy protective gloves all Baitshop servers needed to wear if they wanted to end a shift with the same number of fingers they'd started with.

"Two minutes and we can get out of here," she said. "I need to set the black light timer on the Nigiri tank and clock out."

"What's with the ocean sounds?" he asked.

"One of those mood CDs," Janet explained, untying her apron. "Gives the mermaids and the Deep Ones a little taste of home when they eat out."

Marshall pulled out a blue-green lump of sea glass the size of his palm and observed the Sushi Bar's patrons through it. Through the misty blur, he could see that more than half the seated customers sported fish tails and suspiciously wriggling moustaches.

"I don't get it," he said. "Why come out of the water at all if they're just going to listen to a recording of it?"

Janet shrugged, sidestepped another server carrying a plate of something squirmy and tentacular that reached for her as it passed.

"Why do British people pack teabags into their suitcases when they go on holiday?" she asked. "Why do Americans order hot dogs in Paris? People are weird about that stuff."

She picked up a tip jar heavy with pirate doubloons, grunting with effort as she counted out her share of the days' tips. Behind her, the tentacle-thing was eating Table Four.

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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